Sauvé commission: 25 edifying testimonies on pedocrime in the church

The Independent Church Sexual Abuse Commission conducted 153 hearings and received 2,819 letters and emails of testimonies from victims of priests before releasing its report on Tuesday. Here are several excerpts.

Untimely flashes

"You will never be able to know how painful the flashes that are imposed on me are , to my mind. These flashes are visions of you and at the same time your voice, your smell of bad breath. A short but clear, precise video, of all your gestures on me. It's not frozen, very much alive: to feel your hand caressing my left leg to my sex… Your arms under my head and you try to kiss me on the mouth As soon as this flash came, what disgust in me! It's unbearable. Since then I've been squeezing my lips, chewing them non-stop, stuffing them into my mouth."

Deliverance

I don't know if I belongTo oblivion or to hatredBut every hour of everyday lifeMy ink under the paper bleeds

Like an old abandoned bookMy mouth remains speechlessI wish I could severThe matrix that covers my ills

The thorns that in my heart I keep flood my mind

Under emotional perfusionLike time stolen from lifeI carry under my solesThe affliction that enslaves me

This unspeakable loneliness I want to get rid of it at all costs To find peace Forever leaving hell

This is why I give the words Of the rapes I suffered in my childhood I yell at them loudly To regain independence

I dare in the fires of the word Break the overly polished mirrors Of all these religious idols Who abuse dirty children

Padlocks locked in his brain

"The father dragged me to his tent, which he closed, he hugged me to him, he smelled of cold cigars (he was smoking cigarillos), I hated that smell, I tried to free myself but he squeezed even harder and he started kissing me on the mouth putting his tongue there, he disgusted me He continued to caress me, I was completely paralyzed (…) I knew nothing of all this and that evening, he taught me words and acts that I did not know about sexuality! Blowjob, masturbation, etc. I went back to my tent to go to bed telling myself that this might be normal, he was the *** father, he had authority, you had to respect him, he was a priest, I didn't know what to think anymore, especially since my parents held him in such high esteem.

The weekend was over, I came home without telling my parents, then I took a shower. In my brain, it felt like padlocks had locked, telling me that maybe this was normal. In the dining room of the house, there was a sideboard at the end of the room on the left, with pencils, papers, and a Petit Robert: my father always told us to look for the meaning of words. I looked up the words and their definitions that father *** had whispered in my ear, definitions that were very succinct.

The next day, I went back to school, I was in 5th grade. I thought back to that dirty weekend, from that day on, I no longer understood anything in math, nothing was the same. The teacher was hitting me with the blackboard brush or the dictionary was flying at me. Talk about it, but talk about it to whom? Or how ? What words to put on what had just happened to me? And then who will believe me? It was so huge."

The exploding padlock

"After the phone call (from a member of a victims' association), it was violent, my brain exploded, it was as if I was opening a tin can more than thirty years old, a rusty tin can whose lid was bulging from the gases, ready to explode.

All the memories remained intact there. And well gamy; enough to rot a life in many ways. (…) Today, I can no longer close this old tin can, the padlocks that I had put on it to forget all this crap remain open. As if I had lost the keys!"

The haunting

"Sometimes when I have an intimate relationship with my wife, the shadow of the priest always hangs over my head. It makes me lose my senses."

Pervasive smells

"The Church must realize that all these acts break someone. I was lucky to have the music, the words to save me and the scouts. But, how many can't manage to get out of these traps, these ambushes, these stratagems, these manipulations? Because when I heard some who said "It was a while", no, it's not a moment, it's a moment that stays, that hits all the time. And, when, before it came out, I had trouble going to the stores, I felt men who didn't smelled bad, I had these smells that brought up smells. Without knowing that it had been that before, I couldn't stand it, I said "I'm going to change departments in the store", even now, when I smell these odors[1]that makes me come back to things. It's very sensual, it's very sensitive. The sounds, the smells. (…) That's why I'm here today, it's for that we know that we can break someone easily, all it takes is an inappropriate gesture, even when you have a soft word for children."

The priest's dog

"The father had a little black dog with a rough brush-type hair; he smelled bad, his dog was sleeping in the tent. Today, I can't not see and pet a dog that has a rough or rough coat. I understood why when the affair broke out."

During a whole school year

"I was 9 years old. The start of the new school year was announced to be radiant: we had heard that brother *** was an outstanding teacher. Think, he taught us grammar in songs, he had a harmonium. Extraordinary! Very quickly, things accelerated: he closed the black curtains of the windows and called us one by one to his office to correct the homework. He had at his feet, to his left, a basin in which he regularly washed his hands. He took us one by one, made us touch his penis and put his hand in our panties. This lasted the whole school year. Boy or girl, without distinction. 25 children. He regularly made threats if we did not keep the secret. It was obvious that hell was waiting for us for sure. He terrorized us and at the same time he was a hero, very friendly and affable to the in the eyes of our parents, he had won their total confidence.

What is the word of a 9-year-old child worth compared to that of such a skilful teacher? Who would have believed us? And then a student opened up to her parents, the affair was revealed, we were then in college. I remember as if it were yesterday "it is known", no need to add more. Each of us knew what it was about. We are in a rural and maritime environment, the men are fishing, sometimes for long periods. Women are most often alone with the responsibility of raising children in daily tasks. Faced with this problem, I believe that they were lost, and shame takes over. Not shame in relation to her child, but shame in relation to the community. The world of believers. And then one day my mother came upstairs, came into my room, her expression was serious, I wanted to melt into the ground, disappear. "So it's true what is being said?", I replied in the affirmative and that's it. It was never discussed again."

Back in the tent at 6 a.m.

"There was a scout camp the year I was eleven. In August, I was still a Cub, he came looking for me in a tent one evening. He was taking me to sleep in his trailer. We were spending the night there. I don't know what time he was bringing us back… He was supposed to send us back to our tents around six in the morning maybe. (…) In this caravan, during this camp, there were always several children. The first times it happened, I wasn't alone with him, there were two of us. I'm not sure anymore. identity of this kid… It seems to me that it was a boy whose name was X, I have a doubt. Imagine that he committed suicide recently. Another also committed suicide, around the age forty years old. I know that he was one of those who had had problems with the priest. It is something quite frequent. (…) The headmistress could not not know. But she was young, she was seventeen or eighteen, what do you want her to say? (…) There were young leaders and female leaders in the scouts, but there were also adults, fathers of families. They must have known. *** put his caravan aside, at the other end of the camp. We can imagine what could happen… One of the adults had to know it. His name was Y. He was present at all the camps. He saw it all, he knew it. If the children knew it, the adults knew it. Everyone knew it. That's something that pissed me off."

A flight from childhood

My very first time was when I was 5 years old, you intervened in the school to teach us the true values ​​of life.

I stayed there from 1958 to 1965. I went there to learn to read, to write and to have access to knowledge, not to fuck.

I was 5 and you were 50.

You took everything from me. You stole my life. You destroyed me.

You destroyed my life the first time you raped me. I became a stranger to myself so that I could survive without affect, without emotion.

I'm a living dead for life. At 66, I'm so empty that I can't find the words to rebel against you.

"I came out with my pants down"

"My little one, my little one, we're going to pray to the Virgin" and at the same time, he was masturbating me. It was father Y. Father Z was much more serious, that is to say, he identified the most aesthetic, the most beautiful children. (…) He said "You are very brilliant, I feel you are very close to our Lord, thing, I will have to see you in particular, we are going to pray together". He pulled me...once, into his lair, that's it. And there, I came out with my pants down.

So, extremely traumatic confessions. (…) This guy was extremely dangerous. So me, very quickly, when there were compulsory confessions, I absolutely avoided Father Z, I preferred the slight pedophile, Father Y. Anyway, we had no choice: it was the either.

I think that almost all the students in my promotion had to go to the pan, except those who were not beautiful, who did not please them. (…) I think it was guys who were predators. So, father Z, he was a little elitist, he chose his prey. Father Y, everyone went there, everyone. Everyone was going there. Father Z was very very vicious, very intelligent and the proof is that he was never caught because he ended his career with all the honors."

The act

It's a spring day in 1979, the end of April, the weather is fine... It's a Wednesday, a Wednesday morning, it's catechism day, it's there is a kid running, he is almost 12 years old, he is running fast, as fast as he can. He has something to say, he is crying, he is crying loudly, this child is me, I am call Eric, I'm 52, so it was 40 years ago...

Desires for murder in dreams

"I dreamed, in boarding school, of escaping and going to kill him. He stopped touching me from the age of thirteen, probably because that I was too big for him. From the age of 16 or 17, I had urges to kill in dreams, at bedtime, when falling asleep. Not only in dreams, moreover, it was more Of course, I would never have done it, but I still wished for her death sometimes at the age of 30, in certain moments of weakness. Before I revealed everything to my wife, I never did. I would have liked it to be known. I wanted to cut his throat, to make him disappear, because he was too present in my life, and in my sentimental life more particularly.

Suicide attempts

"My 'never again!'. I was 23 the day my eldest daughter was born. When I first took her in my arms, I secretly swore to myself one thing: "You will NEVER be brought up the way I was!"

Six years later, my secret familiarity with death is marred by another suicide attempt. But at forty, when I separated from the mother of my daughters, I swore to myself never to kill myself so as not to inflict this pain on them. Yet, I wrote at fifty, there will always be...

… this fucking death that's always lurking around, I'm a living dead, an absentee. And I strive to keep this distance, this border with others. So of course, at my shrink, talking about death! What else matters! Or, the rest is so important, but so far away that only death remains! And it freaks me out."

I thought for a long time that I had killed him…

"More than seventy years have passed since the vile attacks on this little boy that I was. I had it – I don't know how and by what force of life - completely forgotten for a long time but the Ignoble had to come to the surface and present itself again before me, its face, its smell and its violence would not leave me. Its presence always so real , also physical also unbearable.

He made me a hothead. An Unworthy.

For a long, long time I thought I had killed it, annihilated it, destroyed it. I didn't even know he existed anymore. I didn't even know anything about the hurt he had inflicted on me. But he continued his work of undermining, mining, destroying my life without my knowledge.

Words in exile

I write on a calm and mute pageWhere silence is held hostageWords are icebergs in exileFor an unknown land where the seed germinatesWhich will give the flower and the fruit of the verbOf the word and gesture tamed by reason For a season of buds

High tide of my rusty suffering It is so old and deep Words rise in unison Tear the persistent silence The leaf replaces the mirror

My memory is laid bare Before my eyes the blank page Silence surrounds me Inside me the void And the blank page offers me its ever fragile nudity I only have to write a word And the page screams and the page bleeds

From one word to another I searchIn the virginity of this pageThe identity of the one who will revealThe evil that torments meBut nothing rings trueWords are riddlesWho don't like to be revealed

My window overlooks the nightAnd the night settles in meOnly this blank page remainsLast message

Finally telling his children

"At 66, I finally attest to the assaults suffered and their consequences.

From January to September 2020, I am in monthly work with a psychiatrist. Our work led to two decisive changes in attitude in March:

– I speak: after half a century of relentless silence (apart from my shrinks… and my partner), I can finally tell my childhood and this story to my daughters. They who were surprised or worried about this hidden part of their origin, but dared not tell me about it.

– I recognize my state of victim: no, I am not the culprit! While a certain misplaced pride, encouraged by some relatives, had prevented me until then: "Stop playing the victim, you're still not unhappy!"

Our work comes to an end in September and the doctor formulates the following conclusions:

"Yes, you have experienced this trauma of repeated sexual assault, you have indeed been the victim, which led to your suicide attempt" Which I translate as follows: you have indeed been killed, you are quite dead!

"... but you are here today, caring and supportive, and I don't see any behavioral problems in you." What I translate as follows: you are very much alive today in the capacity to say and carry your life!

So I'm definitely a survivor."

The power of language

"Fortunately, I discovered quite early the power of words, notes, rhythms and melodies that could save my life."

A real tsunami

"This man was the pillar of the family, the reference, the trusted person to whom the whole family turned for advice, advice. He was always kind to Me, I said to myself that he knew what he was doing. So I did what he asked of me, this cursed gesture which still disgusts me at almost 44 years old. I was in 6th grade, I I was 11 years old, my 12th birthday was approaching. This week was long, very long. The day everything was going well. The evening was not the same thing. (...) There too, he did not exert any pressure on me. I saw him happy, good and evil were mixed in my head. Part of me was screaming silently, asking him to stop but the words wouldn't come out. Another, seeing his eyes, was telling me don't m The week passed, the memories were hidden far away in my brain, locked in a safe whose key I lost for years, very long years.

My family, especially my parents, knew nothing until one evening when on the radio there was mention of a priest who had abused children. And there, a real tsunami. Everything came to the surface. All these images, my fears, my disgust, a disgust with myself too. A guilt too, because for a long time I wondered what I had done to make him act like that. For a very long time I thought I was responsible. How could I have forgotten everything like that? Why didn't I react? Why me ? My parents at the time, did not realize all this. It was too violent I think and then it was him! It was impossible. Unfortunately yes, it is possible. During his funeral, the bishop came to talk to me and told me that my great[1]uncle prayed, prayed for me at the end of his life, for the harm he did to me. To this day, I don't know if I've forgiven him, I just know that I'm not responsible. The adult was him. I didn't do anything, he had to control his urges. It destroyed me, the scars are still there."

The Church's lack of listening

"I entered into a process of freeing speech, I went to see a priest. I inquired. In the diocese, I I have friends who told me about a priest who was capable of listening very well. I called him. He said to me: "Come and see me at Z next Friday at 9 o'clock." go to confession, I was going there to deliver my story to a representative of the Church. I would never have been at peace until I had done that. So I am addressing the institution that hosts in its faulty priests, and I needed that. The priest receives me, he listens to me for 1 min 30, and he speaks for 8 min 30, out of 10 min. And in addition, he says to me: "You are inhabited by sin, I want to confess." So there, that broke me. (…) There, I am completely upset, opposite effect. So I reflect, I want to meet another priest. I want to be heard, I want to be listened to. I need empathy. Because the priest who did this to me, he knew who he was doing it to, he knew what child he had in front of him."

Evolving on quicksand

"Thank you for offering this opportunity to speak… I would just like to tell what I lived thirty years ago now, and which disturbed me permanently in my life path (and still makes my life complicated today). I hesitated to tell it, because it seems to me ultimately quite banal and "not much". I do it in order to participate to an understanding of this deeply unhealthy phenomenon that is abuse of all kinds; the hardest thing is the lasting confusion in which it plunged me (learning to identify between good, evil, lies or semblance and truth, law, morality, love, commitment, obedience…). All of this becomes very complex. Everything becomes very relative with a feeling of evolving on quicksand."

An interview to make up your mind to write

"I read the interview with Jean-Marc Sauvé in La Vie du no 3871 and in particular -35% are 71 or older- – I had 71 years old a month ago - and the "victim" - was 10 years old or less -: immediately a painful emotion invaded me and I sobbed irresistibly, long at the thought of what I had to undergo at 9 years old and before since the priest *** remained four years in my village from 1953 to 1957.(…) It took the interview in La Vie to decide me to write to you… I finally got there this morning when, in one go and without sob, I confided… with courage and confidence in the people who will read me. Thank you for your “redemptive” work."

A liberation

"A little over a year ago, I contacted you, I shared with you what I had experienced and which ruined my life for 41 years and you took me seriously. Finally, I conscientiously filled out the questionnaire you sent me. I don't know how to thank you because since this approach with you, I have experienced a real LIBERATION and this one LASTING over time since it has now been more than a year. I have only one word to say to you: THANK YOU."

A profession chosen "to flee adults"

"My story is linked to that of my sister. We were sexually assaulted by a priest in the 1950s, he was sentenced to 20 years with aggravating circumstances and he died in prison. My memories are fuzzy. For my part, it was touching in a 4CV, he took us to the café to have a drink, to drink a grenadine. I was next to him, and I remember the clothes I was wearing. I had little blue overalls in shorts. So it was practical and then… And then I also remember his exhibitions near the river… He said to us, "We're going to pee " and he was showing off. I also remember – I didn't remember it right away, but during my therapy and I'm pretty sure – that he made us touch his erect penis. For me I think that it's real, but I still have a lack of self-confidence and doubts. The trial helped me a lot because it allowed me to understand things. This kind of thing marks an entire life, I have consequences, it is difficult to say all that. I was a very anxious child, I had problems, now I remember, at the age of 10, I had OCD: you always had to close the doors, I took I don't know how long to to close the doors, to return there in case the door was not closed… Psychic discomforts which are known today… I realize it now. I had unjustified fears, I was afraid of everything, of animals, of the storm, well of many things. I realized that I didn't like people touching me, and touching my body. And that was for a very, very long time and I didn't know why...

(...)

I chose a job that allowed me to be with children, I was a teacher from the age of 20 to 60. I was running away from adults – I think so now – and then I joined a congregation, the Dominicans from the countryside, where I remained for 10 years. There, I had the chance to meet people who understood that I was not well and who advised me to do some work in psychology."

Speaking, to emancipate oneself

"I remember very few things. I must say before going into the facts that what is striking is this kind of black -out, of silence. I went into analysis, obviously on different subjects, but I never spoke about that. And that provoked a very great silence, the origin of which I discovered last year, with my partner, who is a psychologist. I realized then, at that moment, that I had never spoken about it. I do not remember words, but I remember smells, sweat, sperm , heat. And I remember being both disgusted and terrified. I don't know what words to use, but it still feels like rape. Even though there was no oral sex. , to my knowledge. If I had to choose I would say no, but I have no memory of the words spoken. What I expected, what I expect you to offer, which is precious in the end, is to be able to speak. An emancipatory moment. It's really emancipatory, getting out of something whose effects I have always ignored or underestimated. I spoke of a blackout earlier, but it's more of a blast effect, that is to say it was something violent, and we live with that, forgetting the origins and what happened. It was while reworking on all this for a year that I realized it. I don't know if I lost my faith, but I certainly broke with the Church as an institution, but not with the Gospel as a demand for truth, nor with these sources of our culture.

For me, pedophilia is the perfect crime. It is the crime by which the author has almost every chance that his victim will never speak or at least never in the period during which society considers that the facts are not prescribed. So there too I have a formula – I like formulas –: “the dumb speak to the deaf”. The mute is me; the deaf are you and society. Those who can't speak meet those who won't hear. The victim cannot talk about these things, at least for a long time, and society does not want to hear. I think it has to do with the fact that the unspeakable cannot be said and the unthought cannot be thought.

The forces of repression are so strong that you forget the face, you forget the voice, you forget the name, you forget the first name. In fact, I only found this surname and this first name very indirectly because one of my brothers was a student in the vocational school where the priest was a teacher and chaplain. Most likely it is one of the connections, that is, he knew not only my aunt but one of my brothers. But, see, to be perfectly honest, for years I wondered if this name, which is a proper name and a common name, which I forgot and found during my psychotherapy, was that of the priest. And I think that's one of the reasons why I couldn't or didn't want to take legal action."

The annex of more than 200 pages of the Sauvé report is composed of several pages, with simple points, as if to recall all these testimonies "impossible or remained in the shadows". These victims who did not want to speak, for lack of strength or by choice, those who cannot speak, whose "padlock" has not yet cracked.